Run anyway

Righting your story

By design, I’ve taken a gap here. I’ve needed time to lay down the loosest lines for a new story, rework most of them and then lay down a few more. It’s been tedious; my body toggles between sulking and effervescent, sometimes hourly, as thoughts battle for outsized meaning and time drones on. In many ways, the last two months have been the most laid bare of this ongoing hop along. In early January, I called for pencils down on all things Long Covid. No more feverish research, no more hourly conversation about my symptoms nor the syndrome itself. I signed out of my online support community and quit seeking answers to this twisted riddle. Which is not a claim to the end of worry altogether because let’s be honest, rather, I made a commitment to transforming my worry into alternative actions- my hand moving steadily across the lined page with Sumi ink and an offset nib, tossing my shuttle across a narrow warp as I consider the contemplative act of weaving, taking to the slushy road and trail for longer stretches as my spirit releases fear of anything catastrophic bearing down. I committed to reentering life as it stands today, to holding rather than resolving.

So much of my experience with recovery can be characterized by the act of dodging dogma. I liken it to a pinball machine, as erratic and acute in it’s herky jerky motion, as jarring as the mayhem of buzzers and bells. Dogma creeps in from all directions, from the unsolicited advice of a friend who struggles to just sit with your pain, the charming Youtube guy who convinces you its all in your brain, the well intentioned tribes of #microclots, #MCAS, #POTS #Dysautonomia. It bubbles up in exchanges with your Naturopath then tacks hard in a later conversation with your Pulmonologist. Everyone has a bent and any process of synthesis is up to you. That is the real work and that is where I’ve spent my time lately, my process resembling more of that of a designer than a patient. Which is closer to the truth, anyway, closer to the whole story of my quilted, colorful life.

In early January, I had a new round of pulmonary functional testing that was totally normal. We’d traveled down to Dartmouth’s medical center to meet with a new Pulmonologist as a part of their Post Covid program. Dartmouth is more 1980’s mall than hospital with odd interior promenades, potted Ficus at every corner and turquoise accents that jag around walls of glass block. When I was asked to walk as quickly as I could for six minutes, lapping a set of cones along the eastern promenade, naturally, my inner athlete tackled the challenge like it was a qualifying trial for mall walking champion USA. 600 meters in 6 minutes. Nothing is wrong with my lungs. Nothing is wrong with my inner athlete. From there, I started running. Ok, jogging. First, 1-minute intervals. Then 2. Now the occasional 3. I run on an undulating gravel road near our house, saving the jogs for the flatter stretches next to the dairy cows and open corn fields. My physical therapist and I have an agreement about my heart rate threshold so I clock it with a bit of levity. I have always come alive when running and this has never been more true than in these fleeting intervals which always end too soon.

Part of the Post Covid dogma is a vehemence against graded exercise therapy where intensity and frequency are gradually increased over weeks and months. This originates in the ME/CFS world where the result of such activity is often post exertional malaise or worsening of fatigue and symptoms. Even in my loving Long Covid community, if you mention ramping up activity or exercise, a chorus will immediately serenade you with anxiety inducing cautionary tales. If we are to believe that all chronic pain and chronic illness is actually bio-pyscho-social in nature, as Rachel Zoffness lays out beautifully in her work on pain management, the psychological and social elements are critical to working with- and through- the biological. A huge part of resolving post exertional malaise is believing that you can, over time, by reducing fear, drowning out dogma and amping joy. This is where my new story begins, where the synthesis of what actually matters for my own healing reads more like a clear outline and less like a fuzzy collection of opinions and warnings.

I recently listened to an interview between Rich Roll (mixed feelings) and Tommy Rivers Puzey, an ultrarunner who was diagnosed with a rare cancer in the Summer of 2020 that left his lungs pocked like swiss cheese. By all accounts, he should’ve died, emaciated at 75 pounds and with very little lung capacity. Instead, he returned to running. In November of 2021, he walked the entirety of the NYC marathon. In Spring of 2022 he ran/walked the Boston marathon in 6 1/2 hours. I wept as his story rattled around in my body. I laced up my running shoes and listened to the interview again while out on the trail. I invited more of these stories into my day as the thrum of Long Covid receded and hushed. I traded out my schleppy walking pants for running tights and played the part. My biological symptoms didn’t really budge but I no longer felt the same way about them. So my chest feels like a 300 pound creature is sitting on it and burns at the breastbone, let’s run anyway. I began practicing more indifference to the symptoms, indulging them less and doing more of what I wanted irregardless. In chronic illness circles, this is the antithesis of recommended symptom tracking; rather than careful analysis and management, I went full on neglectful mother as the toddlers raved and ranted. Let’s run anyway.

Now my inner punk was also getting in on the action and she is a welcome being. I sought out other pieces of me to bring into the fold. I acquired a new loom that is modern and easy to use, and retired my cranky 250 year old behemoth. I visited a Josef Albers exhibition up in Burlington and asked his ecstatic color to rev up my overwintered heart. I started cooking more, tossing in some cumin and coriander on our weekly rotation of roasted vegetables. I gained ten pounds, sorely needed, as my digestive system works out the kinks. When people say, wow, you must be feeling better, I feel at odds with how to reply. So much of the biological nagging is still afoot; I live with persistent chest tightness, transient air hunger, mid chest pain and issues synchronizing my speech with my breath. I believe I know what is going on biologically and hope that over time it will dissipate but I wouldn’t say that this cluster of symptoms has changed much in the last few months. I feel different, I guess, more like myself but in a body I am still discovering.

Early in my recovery, a friend posited the question ‘Who might Adele be if she weren’t concerned with being productive’?. I recoiled. She meant well, genuinely trying to reframe my rabid mind as I came undone sprawled out on a beach towel next to her. Around the same time, another friend said she was almost glad this was happening to me as it granted me the opportunity to slow down and witness rather than ‘do’. Ouch. But I bought into this way of thinking. I examined it like a botanist disassembling an ornate flower, I read tome after tome on the topic and even wrote about it here. My conclusion- that’s not who I am, in recovery or health. I like motion. I love tallying the work I’ve done at the end of a long day or the mileage I’ve accrued after a run. I like weaving yard after yard of cloth as my shoulders scream and my back whines. I don’t like resting all that much and have no desire for that to shift. My internal engine runs hot and I am happy for that. If I’ve gleaned anything in this chapter, it’s how intrinsic our sense of self is to our capacity to heal. Run anyway.

We fly to the Caribbean in two weeks for a much needed break. We haven’t left our house in almost nine months. Ah, gestation, so it seems fitting. Our dear friends invited us to join them and they are nothing short of a riot. Two months ago I wouldn’t have considered getting on a plane for fear of contracting Covid again. I’m still not amped about it but I’m going anyway. I expect some turbulence (OMG had to) leading into the journey but my punk self is at the ready to fight that head on. I have an awesome friend who is one of my go to’s for weighing risk and she chimed in by scrawling ‘Adele Here’ on the pictures of the villa’s pool and deck. While I am most excited about being OUT of Vermont and with friends who make me laugh a lot, I’m also mapping out runs along sandy beaches. I have no idea what long travel and sudden heat will do to my body but I guarantee we will run anyway.